


redemption will comfort you so

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: F/M, Stranger Things 3
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-06
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2020-11-26 10:01:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20928389
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: Steve Harrington AU in which the reader is a Russian assassin in the base who helps the gang escape. With nowhere to go and in need of a place to hide, Steve takes them in. But with years worth of baggage to unpack, a happy ending will have to be fought for.





	1. part I

**Author's Note:**

> this starts when robin and Steve are with the Russians, but we’re gonna pretend the alarm hasn’t gone off yet!! sorry for massacring the Russian!! I used multiple translation sources to try and make it as accurate as possible and did research to the best of my ability so I apologize for discrepancies! 
> 
> find me and this fic @ harringtown on tumblr :)

A killer needs a code.

It was one of many lessons Andrei taught you over the years, but it was the most important one. Without it, you’d be no different than the heartless, sociopathic monsters the other governments unleashed on their enemies. You’d have lost your soul like the others. 

Russia didn’t make monsters. They made killers. And good ones, at that.

Your code consisted of only two points: no children and no innocents. You couldn’t afford to harbor any more reservations; Andrei even thought your reluctance to hurt a child was too soft. 

But the code was yours, scratched onto the white wall beside your bed at age 14. Four years later, it had cemented. It was yours to live by - it was yours to preserve your humanity.

“Если они вам нужны mертв, сделай это сам,” you spat._ If you want them dead, do it yourself._ You weren’t an executioner. You worked from the shadows, invisible. Being ordered to walk into a room of people tied up and end them was an insult. You were better than that.

Besides, if you took the time to follow Andrei’s orders, you’d miss your window of escape. Between the shifts, when Andrei and the others gorged themselves in the cafeteria. You’d snag a cart, make it to the elevator, and be far away from the Russians and Hawkins, Indiana. You’d be far away from who you were; far away from what they’d turned you into.

No child wishes to be an assassin. Your dream, the dream you had before being turned over to become someone else’s weapon, was to come to America and go to school. Go to the beach, sit under the sun, close your eyes without fear.

“Ah…Но они особенные,” Andrei said, wearing that sickening grin. You resisted the urge to smack it off his face.

_But they are special_. Your stomach turned.

You’d already done all the preparation to leave. Belongings tossed down the garbage chute, sleeping meds dropped into the coffee pot the men would inevitably drink from. You had a few hours to get the hell out of here. Wasting them by torturing someone stupid enough to get caught wasn’t a priority.

At least, not until you saw who it was they wanted to you kill. A boy and a girl, already beaten within inches of their life, not much older than you. You peered through the small window, hands curling into fists. Anger flared in your gut, hot and sharp.

Children. _Innocents_.

“Нет, я не буду,” you said, nausea pooling in your gut. _I will not._

Andrei’s grin soured and he unlocked the door and pushed it open, shoving you in.

“Ты будешь,” he said just as the door shut behind you.

_You will._

* * *

_The darkest blood on your hands comes from the first life you took. Two years into training, two years since your parents relinquished you to what they’d always referred to as ‘the evil men’. But despite how evil they perceived them to be, it was they who let themselves get dragged into the depths. And it was only by giving you up - you, a frail, scared 10 year old - that their debts would be forgiven._

_Their lives for yours. Parenting at its finest._

_It was the final test. The only one that actually meant anything, you discovered later._

_Her name was Nadia, and she was the only friend you’ve ever had. But just as your parents had to make a choice to stay alive, you had to make a choice, too. You or her. Life or death._

_Nadia, who’d never shown weakness in the years you’d known her, cried when you lifted the blade to her neck. All her strength fell away like a marionette with clipped strings. She stared up at you, both of you panting and bleeding and aching from the fight, and there was no anger in her eyes._

_“все в порядке, cестричка,” she said. _It’s alright, sister.

_Life or death. She closed her eyes, and you gripped the blade tighter._

_You chose life._

* * *

The pair - tied back to back on a chair - whipped their heads toward you when the door slammed shut. Both had been beaten, but the boy’s injuries outnumbered the girls. Blood caked the bottom half of his face, but even with the hurt he must have been feeling, the boy smiled.

“Oh, shit! They’ve got kids, too? That’s just fucked up!” He said, in a far better mood than he should be. You frowned. High. They were high.

_Jesus, Andrei_.

“Isn’t child labor….like…illegal?” The girl asked, brows arching. The boy snorted a laugh. You pursed your lips.

“Somebody call the cops!” The boy announced.

How could you be expected to kill them? Apart from their clear youngness, they appeared just to be a giggling pair who were in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“Are you here to kill us?” The girl asked, not seemingly alarmed by the prospect. That, too, was new. Not that you were ever up and close with your targets, but even then, the fear was tangible. Those people knew what was coming, and they were afraid.

The first kids your age you’d seen in almost two years, and of course, you were supposed to kill them. You looked between them, both bloody and beaten and barely holding on.

There wasn’t really any choice to make.

“No,” you said simply. You locked the bolt on the door.

“Am I tripping?” The boy asked.

“Obviously,” replied the girl. Both collapsed into giggles, and you raked a hand through your hair, frustrated.

“Shut up, or we all die here,” you snapped. The pair clamped their mouths shut, eyes on you.

“Andrei will be back in five minutes. If _you_ are not dead on the floor, we are _all_ dead.”

“Nice,” the boy said. You narrowed your eyes, and he crinkled his nose, trying to raise his hands in apology, only to be stopped by the restraints.

“Do not move, and do not speak,” you ordered, moving to both of them and undoing their shackles. You’d just gotten the girl free when the alarm went off. Both of them jumped, that familiar fear filling their eyes. It tugged on your belly, but you knew better than most that fear could be both a weapon or a paralytic. You needed the weapon.

“Shit,” the boy hissed, pushing himself off the chair shakily. He caught the girl, the two supporting each other’s weight.

You crossed to the small window and looked out; the base resembled a disturbed ant hive with uniformed guards darting back and forth.

“Пиздец,” you cursed._ Damnit._

You turned to face the pair, who’d been somewhat sobered by the alarm. You opened your mouth to tell them to follow you when the door burst open and two children ran in, one wielding one of Andrei’s favorites: the electric stick. A young boy with curly hair screamed as he ran at you and you ducked easily, reaching out to yank the stick away before he electrocuted you or himself. Another scream followed, but the boy stopped at the opposition of the older pair.

“Dustin, chill it with that thing!” The boy exclaimed.

“Steve, she’s a Russian!” Dustin explained, as if it weren’t blatantly obvious, and lunged for the stick. You lifted it out of arms reach.

“Yeah, and she’s trying to save our ass! Try not to kill her before she does that!” Steve said.

“Oh,” Dustin said.

“Yeah, _oh_.”

“Isn’t she a little young to be a Russian?” A young girl asked.

“_Pretty_ sure they have baby Russians,” said the older girl, sarcastic even in the face of chaos.

“We can talk about this later,” Steve said, “maybe for now we can _get the hell out of here._”

His words dragged everyone back to reality, and within seconds everyone was on their feet and behind you at the door.

“I will keep them from following,” you said. The boy frowned.

“What?”

“You will get out safe. I promise.”

He shook his head.

“No way. We can’t just leave you here. What happens when they find out you didn’t…”

“Kill you?” You asked. He nodded sternly.

“Kill me. Or, torture and kill me,” you said with a shrug. 

Steve looked to his friends, and back at you, the gears turning in his head.

“Come with us,” he said suddenly.

“What?”

“Come with us. These people, they’re…”

He was giving you the out you’d been waiting for, the one you’d almost taken for yourself. But it was different to run by yourself - only your demons to keep you company. How could you saddle someone else with them? Risk the lives of these kids who were already in a world of trouble? You were poison. Deadly. But you didn’t want to be. _God_, you didn’t want to be.

“Come with us,” Steve said again, his voice soft. You met his gaze, searching for an inch of doubt; you didn’t find any.

So, you nodded.

“Follow me,” you said, and opened the door, new allies behind you.


	2. part II

It was easy to slip away amongst the chaos after the police arrived. With firefighters on the building, cops and survivors flitting back and forth, and flames and ash dusting the air, you had enough time to disappear into the ruined Gap and return sans uniform. You couldn’t imagine the deputies and FBI reacting well to a Russian soldier, even if you were young. They’d just discovered lurkers beneath a mall and fought a big spider monster; a child soldier with blood soaking your hands wouldn’t be taken well.

You packed a bag with gauze and alcohol to clean your wounds, another change of clothes, and a few bags of chips from a broken vending machine. There wasn’t anywhere to go, but anything was better than where you’d come from. Out here, no one had to know. No one had to know the skeletons piled up in your closets. 

“Hey!” the boy, Steve, you’d helped escape the base called after you - he was even bloodier than before the big fight, but had turned out to be surprisingly capable. You ignored him, but he jogged over, incessant.

“Hey,” he said, coming to a stop beside you, “You disappeared.” He paused. “What are you wearing?”

You’d pulled jeans, a hoodie, and boots from the store. Comfortable, easy to move in, and easily forgotten. Not quite the uniform you’d donned before. 

“I doubt your people would appreciate my survival,” you said, “and I’m not interested in being interrogated.”

“Probably right. They’re in a shoot-first-ask-later kind of mood,” Steve said, the hint of a smile on his lips. His hair was coated with ash and his skin was stark against red blood, but he still managed to smile. Despite the flames and the bodies and the burning.

He was fascinating. But you were dangerous.

“I never got your name,” he said. You hadn’t given it. In fact, you hadn’t given your name in a long time. It was like shrugging off a weight to let the word leave your lips.

“Y/N,” you said.

“Steve,” he said. “Though, you probably knew that,” he said, nodding to his name tag, dirty and bloody but still readable.

“Thank you. For everything you did in there,” Steve said.

You shrugged; all you’d done was shoot a few guns and toss a few fireworks. Nothing more than any of them.

“It was nothing.”

“No. It wasn’t. Thank you.”

His kindness made you squirm. It was hard not to look for cruelty; it was almost harder not to find any. You nodded curtly.

“What are you gonna do now?” Steve asked, tone genuine; it was the first time in a long time someone truly wanted to hear what you had to say. It was that which made it impossible to lie.

“I don’t know,” you said.

“Can I call someone? Get in touch with your parents, or something?”

You shook your head.

“It’s just me,” you said. “It’s just me.”

Steve frowned and looked over his shoulder at the settling chaos behind him. The fire had been put out and all the wounds had been stitched. You would be noticed, soon. And the questions would start.

If Andrei and the others weren’t dead, it wouldn’t have been an issue. Had you been taken in - as you had on missions before, when the cops got a little too close, as they sometimes did - one quick call to Andrei would confirm your ‘parentage’ and have you back out on the streets. But he wasn’t here - it was just you. Only you. And you had no connections, no money, nothing but the stolen shirt on your back and years of training.

“You’re coming with me,” Steve said. He sounded brave and strong and unbreakable. He sounded safe. No one was _really_ safe, nowhere was _actually_ safe, but this boy seemed close.

“I can’t do that.”

“I’m not leaving you here. You saved our lives. Let me help you,” he said. You tossed the offer over in your head, wishing it was as easy as saying yes.

“I’m not safe to be around,” you said. In more ways than one. “They’ll come after me.”

“Everyone in that base is dead. Who’s left to come after you?”

He was right. You’d watched the base go down in a bundle of sparks and flames after the generator was broken. It didn’t seem possible anyone could have survived.

But you did. You couldn’t convince yourself no one else had.

“I can’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just…can’t.”

“It’s okay to get some help, sometimes,” he said. You wondered if he’d still be as willing to assist when you found out the stray cat he brought home was a panther.

You glanced back at the scene; already, a deputy was watching you and Steve, separated from the chaos, suspicious. Stomach churning, you set your jaw and met Steve’s gaze.

“Fine.” 

* * *

Steve Harrington’s house was as empty as it was big - and it was massive. Where you expected to find tons of siblings running about or two happy American parents, there were dark hallways and loud, creaky floors. After leading you to a guest bedroom and bringing in a towel and a borrowed pair of pajamas, Steve left to rinse the day off, and you followed suit.

You hadn’t taken a hot shower in over seven years. There were no comforts at Malenkov, lovingly referred to as the Academy of Death by all that attend it. Nadia always called it spy school; she had a soft spot for American spy movies. Such a title felt silly to you, but it wasn’t all that inaccurate. Malenkov took unwanted kids and turned them into invisible soldiers. When the gun went off, who’s first instinct was to look at the kid’s table?

That concept spurred a generation of killers. Kids who took lives instead of exams.

The hot water burned your skin and you turned it up, pretending the blood that washed down the drain was that which stained your hands. But no amount of soap could wash that off.

After, you found Steve in the kitchen of the vast house with his bloody sailor’s uniform in the sink, a bottle of soap on the counter next to it. He wasn’t washing it, though; he was staring into the bubbles, mind elsewhere.

He’d lost people, today. And it didn’t seem that loss was as regular a part of Steve’s life as it was yours. Even with the frequency, the hurt always took you by surprise, plucking the air from your lungs. You couldn’t imagine what it was like for him.

“Are you alright?” You asked. He jumped, not having noticed you come in. An apology popped up in your throat, but years of training kept it locked inside.

Steve raked a hand through his hair, not seeming to mind the suds he left behind. Now that his face was clean the blooming bruises and wounds were visible, stark against pale skin. The drugs had worn off and the hurt had settled in.

“Tired.”

“I’m sorry,” you said, words unfamiliar on your tongue, “about your friends.”

Steve shook his head, frustration flashing quickly before it was gone.

“Billy was…Billy was a dick. A huge dick. But he was Max’s sister. And Hopper…” he stopped. “I don’t know what any of us are gonna do without him.”

“The hurt gets easier to live around,” you said, an ever-fading image of Nadia flashing behind your eyes. She was nowhere near the only life you’d taken, but she was the cut that stung the deepest. Her loss - at your hands, nonetheless - still stabbed the hardest. 

Steve met your gaze, his brows knotting.

“What were you doing down there, anyway? You’re my age. You should be…in school, or something. Not in a Russian base.”

You tilted your head and crossed your arms against your chest. The moment he knew, you’d be out on the streets. And you wanted a little more time with the mesmeric Steve Harrington.

“You can tell me,” he pressed. It was like a challenge; a dare to horrify. You swallowed and met his gaze, brows arched.

“Your people call me a spy.”

His confusion deepened.

“You-you can’t be a spy. You’re just a kid.”

“Exactly.”

“Is that even legal?”

“Likely not.”

“Why hasn’t the government stopped it?”

“_My government_ made me into what I am.”

For the first time since you’d found him tied to that chair, Steve was rendered silence. The mistake was tangible; you were choking on regret.

It had been a lovely hour. You’d miss the hot water.

“Have you ever…” he didn’t finish the sentence, but it was easy enough to pick up.

“Killed anyone?”

He nodded, face pale.

“Yes,” you said simply. It wasn’t something to be proud of, but it was the reality. You’d learned reality was rarely pretty.

His face changed, something that could have been fear flickering in his eyes before going unreadable. Panic rose in your throat.

“It was kill or be killed. I didn’t…I didn’t want to.” They were words you’d never been able to say out loud, but they were true. You didn’t want it. You didn’t want any of it.

“We’ve all done things we aren’t proud of. Especially lately,” he said. It struck you that you weren’t the only one with skeletons. Even if you had more, if they were worse or darker, he had them, too.

“It only makes you a monster if you let it,” he said.

“You really think that?”

“I have to,” he said, face darkening. And you supposed he was right. You really hoped he was.

Your gaze fell to the clothes in the sink.

“Soap won’t wash the blood out,” you said.

“Of course you know that,” Steve said. It took you a moment to realize he was joking; half your mouth turned up.

“Oh, come on. I don’t even get a smile for that?”

You arched a brow, and said, “No.” He crinkled his nose - it was, admittedly, adorable.

“Fine. Then, what should I use to get this out? Not that there’s a job to go back to, but my parents might notice if they find blood-stained clothes,” he said.

You were fluent in six languages and proficient in a handful more, but the words evaded you, a jumble of Russian and English and all the others.

“It’s alcohol. Ah…peroxide”

“Hydrogen peroxide?”

You nodded.

“Isn’t that, like, bleach?”

“Bleach stains are better than bloodstains.”

“Touché,” he said. You frowned, to which he smiled. That smile never seemed to falter, with the tenacity of a rubber band, always snapping back eventually. As much a constant as your frown.

“It means, like, you’re right.”

“I know I am.”

He laughed, a seemingly impossible noise amidst the day’s carnage, but beautiful. It almost - _almost_ \- made you want to smile.

After a beat, his smile pulled into a thin line.

“So, your parents….your family… you really don’t have anyone?”

“My parents turned me over to have their debts forgiven. If they were still around, I wouldn’t want them back,” you said, “so no.”

Steve pursed his lips, gaze darting to a framed wedding photo of a man and a woman he vaguely resembled on the wall.

“Me neither,” he said, “So I guess you’re stuck with me for a while.”

“I suppose so,” you said. And despite the presence of a murderer in his kitchen - despite the prospect of _staying_ \- he didn’t seem all that bothered. Surprisingly, the thought of staying didn’t bother you, either.


	3. part III

On the third night at Steve Harrington’s house, you woke to screams. Nightmares were a beast you were intimately familiar with, and you were out of the guest bed and in the hall in seconds, pushing through Steve’s door.

He thrashed in tangled sheets, eyes closed and mouth open, yells dropping to fearful moans. You crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, touching his arm gently. You’d shaken too many people awake to find a knife at your throat - done it to others enough - to know gentle was the way to go.

When he didn’t stir, trembling and trapped, you pushed onto your knees and grabbed his shoulders, steadying them and pushing down. At the restricted movement, his eyes snapped open, wide and bloodshot for a beat before recognition dawned in his eyes.

“You’re safe. It was a nightmare. Just breathe for a minute,” you instructed. His brows furrowed over bewildered eyes but he did as you asked, gasping, then huffing, then finally, just breathing. You kept the pressure on him until he’d settled and you could feel the quieting of his heartbeat.

* * *

You sat back, reaching over to flick the lamp on and fill the bedroom with dim light, chasing the demons out of the dark and into the shadows.

“Want to talk about it?” You asked. Steve pushed himself up against the headboard and raked a hand through his mussed hair. He shook his head. Silence fell over the room and Steve messed the fabric of his shirt between his shaking fingers.

You weren’t usually one to fill the empty space. But Steve was trembling, half his mind still trapped in a nightmare. You knew the look well - knew the feeling even better.

“I used to have nightmares every night. For years. I didn’t scream, I’d wake up…still. Not able to move. Like, my whole body was locked, and I had to watch,” you skipped past Nadia’s name, “had to watch people die. Watch myself…hurt them.”

“What did you do?” Steve asked. You hadn’t realized he was listening, but his gaze lifted from his lap to meet yours.

“Didn’t sleep for a week.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” you said, “nightmares can find you in the day, too. Especially when you’re sleep-deprived. One of the older girls at Malenkov noticed me stumbling around like…what do you call them? Zombies?”

At Steve’s nod you continued.

“She forced me back to the room and made me lay down. Said I couldn’t make my demons go away by ignoring them. I had to fight my way past them. Or, at least, far enough past them to get some rest.”

“And did you?”

“Eventually. I stopped…trying to wake myself up. I took control. And I finally slept. I still get them, sometimes, but not as much. Not as bad.”

Steve sighed and crossed his arms, eyes falling to a spot on the wall as he began to speak, “When the mall blew up, and we fought the Mind Flayer, that wasn’t the first time. We’ve fought these things before. More than once.”

You frowned and leaned forward, listening. Andrei had kept the base’s mission mostly a secret. You were only brought to America as a punishment; you’d gotten lax with hiding your distaste for your forced profession. The base was secluded, and though there had been talk of sending you undercover in town to gather information, the kids had spoiled that plan by sniffing around. The first time you were topside since being brought to Hawkins was when you’d helped Steve and the others escape.

Steve relayed the events of the last two years; the disappearance of Will Byers, Barbara Holland’s death, the Demogorgons, the telepath El, the Demodogs, even Dart, the curly-haired boy - Dustin’s - temporary pet. He spoke of the people that had died or gone: Barb and Bob and Hopper and even Billy, the hot-head he’d butted heads with since the day he and Max moved to town. The monsters he’d fought, and the ones he couldn’t.

“Гавно,” you said. Steve’s brows furrowed.

“What does that mean?”

“It means _shit_,” you said, one side of your mouth quirking up.

Steve repeated it, testing the syllables, “Gav-no.” You nodded.

“You know, I could teach you to fight. You were good in the mall, but you could be better.”

“As good as you?” He asked. You crinkled your nose.

“No.”

“Come on. No smile? Not even a little?”

You arched your brows, shrugging.

“Maybe you just aren’t that funny.”

He scoffed and a hand flew to his chest.

“I’m wounded.”

You rolled your eyes and drew your knees up, arms slung loosely around them.

“You’d teach me, though?”

“What else am I going to do?” You asked. Steve smiled.

“Awesome.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“Tomorrow,” he said.

* * *

“I can’t hit a girl,” Steve said, shaking his head. He hadn’t had an issue with the warm-up run or the stretches, but when he realized learning to fight actually meant fighting you, he’d clammed up.

“How sweet,” you said, “but your opponent won’t feel that way.”

“You’re not my _opponent_,” he said. You arched a brow and paused for a full second before lunging, throwing a punch and pulling it a centimeter from his face. He flinched, arms flying up to protect himself.

Your lips curled up ever so slightly, and Steve shook his head in disbelief.

“Oh, _that’s_ amusing to you?”

“Quite,” you said, and swung again, pulling the second punch just as the first. He propped his arms on his hips, arching his brows.

“Fine. Let’s do this,” he said, face contorting as he lunged and punched. You evaded it easily.

“Your moves are all over your face. You lose your advantage when they see you coming,” you said. Steve set his face, obviously an attempt to clear it, but he only succeeded in looking constipated.

“Best places to hit are the kidneys, diaphragm, or the jaw. Back of the head is good, too, but only if you can get back there.”

Steve nodded and lifted his fists; you repositioned them before stepping back. When he seemed ready enough, you swung, nearly catching him the jaw. He jerked away, taking only a second to catch himself before trying to slip behind you. You saw it coming, and whirled, coming back with a kick. He pushed toward you - making you lose the strength in the kick. It was something you hadn’t even had to tell him, and a rush of pride flooded through you.

A rush of adrenaline shot through you, and you couldn’t help but miss the training room at Malenkov. The only place you could find peace was on those mats, tumbling around with the other girls, free of the instructors eyes just for those precious hours.

You faked a swing, which Steve ducked as expected, and swung with the other hand, your gloved knuckles brushing his chin. He shot out a hand, knocking into you. You stepped back and caught your ankle on a tiny hole in the grass, grabbing onto Steve for balance only to drag both of you back. You hit the grass flat on your back, Steve on top of you.

He pushed himself up above you, hair falling into his eyes, and something yawned open inside you, stomach twisting, pulse jumping at the close contact. You’d never been allowed to want anything before - certainly not _anyone. _It wasn’t a feeling you understood, one that scared you more than any nightmare. You cleared your throat and Steve climbed off you. He held out a hand to help you to your feet, which you ignored.

You crossed your arms, putting up a barrier between you.

“Not bad,” you said, hoping your cheeks weren’t as red as you thought.

“But not good,” Steve said with a grin.

“You said it, not me,” you said.

“But not bad,” he said, “I’ll take it.”

“I think that’s enough for today,” you said.

“You want to get out for a bit? Robin’s been bugging me to see you again. She’s worried you’re a plant.”

“A plant?”

“Yeah. Like you’re here to spy on us and report back to your Russian friends.”

“They weren’t my friends,” you said, “and they’re all dead.”

“Hey, I believe you. I know what you did for us. But she doesn’t. Neither do Nancy and Jonathan.”

“Nancy, the girl who broke your heart?”

“She didn’t…yeah. Yeah, Nancy. But they all want to know how the hell we got out of there.”

You frowned, and Steve softened.

“They - we - have been through a lot. They just want some peace of mind. Plus, you can’t stay in my guest room forever. We’re gonna need some help.”

“Help,” you said. Isolation was the only life you’d known for a long time. Every man for himself. But that wasn’t really an option anymore.

“Yeah. Help.”

“It’s okay to get help sometimes,” you said, quoting his words from a few days ago. He smiled, and you were struck again with how beautiful it was. You were already in deep. Too deep. What was another deep dive?

“Wow, who said that? He sounds like a genius. Visionary.”

You almost laughed. Almost.

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Steve said, still smiling that ridiculous - beautiful - smile.

* * *

The group’s makeshift meeting ground was, apparently, the basement of a child’s home. Steve drove you both across town to the brick house, it’s driveway full of other cars.

When you climbed out of the car the hairs on the back of your neck spiked, ice washing through your veins. You felt someone’s eyes on you, but when you looked at Steve, he was unconcerned, climbing from the car and tugging a jacket on. He noticed your stricken look and frowned.

“You okay?” he asked. You nodded instinctively, and Steve smiled reassuringly. He headed toward the front door and you followed, but you couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched.

_They’re dead_, you reminded yourself.

But _you_ weren’t. Maybe someone else had crawled from the ashes.


	4. part IV

The rest of Steve’s group - a collection of various aged teenagers in a basement - were, unsurprisingly, not thrilled with your presence. When you’d first entered, a curly-haired boy - Dustin - opposed the breach of the ‘party’s’ secrecy and trust and some other rambles you couldn’t keep up with, earning the agreement of the others. But in finding out who - what - you actually were and where you’d come from, their irritation turned to anger and hostility.

You were well accustomed to both.

Variations of, “_Are you out of your freaking mind_,” and, “_How could you bring one of them here_?” and “_You’re going to get us all killed,_” And your personal favorite, “_You absolute dingus_.” That one from the girl who’d been captured with Steve underground. She was the most amicable about the whole thing - where there should have been frustration or fear, there was amusement.

“She’s on our side,” Steve protested. You considered breaking it to them that, had you wished them any harm, it would have come already, but didn’t imagine it would go down well. Steve knew these kids; he was the only person who could convince them to help hide you.

And you _would_ need help. Steve’s parent’s backpacking trip ended in August, a mere month away. The shelter would disappear.

In addition, the police chief - Hopper, whose name you were learning not to mention - had contacted the CIA and brought the hounds. There would be some inevitable sniffing around, even if they thought all the Russians had died in the explosions.

They hadn’t, obviously. And if they found you - if they brought you to trial for a single _one_ of the crimes you’d been made to commit - it would all be over. 

Plus, you couldn’t shake the feeling that something was watching. Someone. A predator stalking you from the shadows. Had you not been a beast yourself, you likely wouldn’t have noticed.

If the eyes were anything like you - and you suspected they were - you’d never see them coming. At least, not in enough time to stop it.

“Dude, she’s a _spy_,” said the red-headed girl, Max. Steve had spoken of them all, and you easily put names to faces. Another perk of the job. Old job, now.

“_Ex-spy_,” he retorted.

“Oh, well that makes it better!” Mike said.

“Russian? She is a Russian?” El asked. Her words always came slowly and cautiously, like she wasn’t necessarily sure how to use them. It reminded you of learning English, trying to make sense of letters that had no place being together. You kind of liked the odd, quiet girl.

She, however, did not feel the same. Her face contorted and the nice, shy girl that had been standing transformed into a weapon. Luckily, you’d been forged a long time ago.

“You are the reason-” she said, eyes alight with a dark fire, thrusting her hands out, “that he’s gone.” Nothing happened next, and it frustrated her even more. You knew she was going to rush you a second before she did it, but you didn’t stop her. She slammed her fists into your stomach - surprisingly strong, you noted - and you let her barrel her anger out for a full five seconds before Steve and Jonathan wrestled her off you, your hands coming up to give her a light shove in their direction.

“El!” Mike moved to take catch her, wrapping his arms around her and holding her - also, technically, holding her _back_.

“What the hell was that for!” Steve exclaimed, positioning himself in front of you. You didn’t need the protection, but rather than making you angry, your stomach twisted. He was just so…nice. Nice, and funny, and he had such _lovely_ hair, and-

You shook the train of thought away, bringing yourself back to the room. Now was not the time to be noticing…well, _anything_ like _that_.

“Hopper’s gone because of _you_.” El’s words dripped with hatred; it wasn’t your fault, and _you_ knew it. You just recognized grief and knew there wasn’t anything that would change her hurt. Let her hurl it at you until she - maybe - felt better. She was too young to carry so much pain; every single person in that room, including you, was too young.

“I’m very sorry about your…_Hopper_.” Her brows twitched with anger and Mike turned her away, coaxing the tension out of her shoulders.

“Can we just take it back here? This town is _full_ of CIA agents who _think_ all the commies died in Starcourt. _They’re_ the ones who-” Steve stopped, gaze flicking to El, “-who did that to Hopper. Not _you_,” he said, finishing with his gaze on you. He was trying to convince you of that fact along with them, but El was right, at least a little bit. There were opportunities to leave before that day. Had you, there wouldn’t be a fleck of Hopper’s blood on your hands.

But you stayed. And since you didn’t stop it, you weren’t much better than the people who did it.

“CIA?” You grabbed Steve and turned him to face you. “You didn’t say anything about the CIA.”

“Hopper and Joyce called them for help. They set up shop here before you guys did,” Steve said. At your pursed lips, he corrected, “before _they_ did.”

“You should have told me. Ебать,” you said.

“What does that mean?” Asked Dustin.

“Fuck,” you said at the same time Steve said, “Don’t tell him.”

Dustin grinned and tested the word a few times, correcting his syllables. Steve threw up his hands.

“Great. That’s just great. Now the entire middle school class is going to be cursing in _Russian_.”

“At least no one will know what they’re saying,” Robin supplied, though she couldn’t keep the grin off her lips.

“We’ve got bigger problems than curse words,” Nancy said. “If Steve’s right, they’ll be watching. Anything weird and we’re right back on their radar.”

“If we ever got off it,” Jonathan added.

“There’s something else.” All eyes landed on you and you resisted the urge to squirm. The attention unsettled you, but you pressed on. “I don’t think everyone died in the base.”

“What do you mean, you don’t think everyone _died_?” Steve asked. You pressed your lips together.

“I think someone is watching me.”

“You sure you’re not just paranoid?” Max asked.

“Oh, that one’s not a question,” Steve said.

“I’m not just being paranoid,” you said. “Someone is still out there. Someone like me.”

“And by someone like you…you mean…” Nancy said.

“Another assassin,” Robin said.

* * *

“You should have told me,” Steve said as the two of you made your way back across Mike’s lawn to his car.

“You should have told me about the CIA,” you said, tugging open the door and plopping into Steve’s front seat. He climbed in and slammed the door shut.

“That’s different.”

“It doesn’t appear different to me-”

“They don’t know about you. We just keep you hidden, problem solved. But if one of your people is after you, that’s a different story.” He pulled out of the driveway and back onto the street with a white-knuckled grip on the wheel.

“I know how to be invisible. I’m not worried about your government. I’m worried about mine.” You checked the mirrors, nonchalantly scanning the street behind you for a car. If they were smart, they’d stay out of sight. But everyone had a moment of weakness; a moment where they stepped a little bit too close to the line, and over it.

“And, I’m worried about _you_.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“Well, I am.”

“Then stop.”

“It _so_ doesn’t work like that.”

You shifted to face him, drawing a leg up onto the benched seat. His gaze flicked to the inches between your knee and his thigh and back up at the road, ears going pink.

“You _should_ stop. You shouldn’t worry about me. I don’t deserve it.”

“That’s it.” Steve looked over his shoulder and jerked the wheel. He pulled off the road and turned onto a dirt road.

“What are you doing?” You asked, leaning forward and gripping the dash as Steve rolled to a stop a few yards down the dirt road. He slammed the car into park and turned to face you.

“I told you. I don’t care about what you’ve done.”

“You _should_.” He had to. He _had to_. “I’m not a good person. I’m a _really_ bad person.”

Steve raked a hand through his hair, making it stick up in all directions, and your traitorous fingers yearned to flatten it out.

“When I was in high school, I wasn’t a good person. I was…a real dick.” His lips curled up in a tiny smile. “And I still am, a lot of the time. But I’m trying.”

“It’s different.”

“It’s _relative_,” Steve said. “If you want to be better - if you’re better than you were yesterday - you’re good enough.”

You faced the front and crossed your arms; Steve’s gaze burned into the side of your face.

“So you’ve done horrible things. You also risked your life to save two absolute strangers.”

“Two lives for…all the ones I’ve taken. It’s not enough.”

“It’s a start.” His fingertips grazed your cheek - you _almost_ flinched. You hadn’t been touched that gently for longer than you could remember. Hands could cut, and strangle, and trap, and kill. But they could also do this; they could caress and stroke and hold.

No one was only one thing. You wanted to believe goodness was thrown into your mix; Steve did, and you let yourself believe - for a moment - that was enough.

He held out his arm and you slid into his side without a second thought, letting him tuck you against him. You tipped your temple against his, closing your eyes and letting out a sigh.

“What do we do?” He asked after a moment.

“I need to deal with whoever is watching me.”

“And by deal with…”

You lifted your head and met his gaze, lips pulled thin. “You know what I mean.”

His lips parted, brows twitching. “Whoever this is…they’re dangerous? Like, you-level dangerous?”

“Maybe more,” you said.

“Not to question your skills or anything, but are you sure-” he stopped.

“That I can do this?” He nodded.

“Don’t worry about me,” you said. He snorted. “Fat chance.”

“As for your people…so long as I stay in the shadows and that twelve-year-old in there doesn’t kill me, we’ll be okay.”

Steve’s lips quirked up. “She’s fourteen. And she’ll get over it. It isn’t your fault. She just hurts. We all do.” His smile went a little sad, and you touched his hand. He hesitated a beat before flipping his palm up and threading your fingers together. The touch sent flutters through your belly - pleasant, if not a little terrifying.

“It isn’t too late to leave me on the side of the road.”

“Like you couldn’t find your way back.”

You smirked. “I could,” you said. “But, I mean it. Last chance to…what is it you say? Last chance to get off the bus?”

“Pretty sure _no one_ says that but it technically makes sense,” Steve said. He squeezed your fingers and looked down at your twined hands. “But, I think I’m good. I like the bus.” You laughed and he pulled you back against him, dropping a kiss to your head before restarting the car.

“Seat belt,” he said pointedly, jerking a chin your way. You rolled your eyes and belted up, but you didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t pull it away, holding on all the way home.

When you turned down the street to his house, you couldn’t help but catch a flash of a car in the rearview mirror, one that you’d seen a few times that day. You could have mentioned it to Steve, battened down the hatches right then, but you didn’t.

You let yourselves have a few more minutes of peace. After everything he’d gone through, he deserved just a few more.


	5. part V

Hawkins was peaceful at night. Families were inside cleaning up from dinner and settling in front of their TVs and kids were in baths and even barking dogs were too tired from a day of howling to raise hell. The night was cool, summer slipping away and diving into fall, plucking the stuffy summer heat out of the air.

A worn trail ran through the woods, a perfect running path that you’d memorized after all these weeks. You didn’t even need to look down anymore, your feet carrying you along the path instinctually. Your thoughts drifted, mind pleasantly blank as your feet smacked the packed dirt and you huffed for breath.

You’d invited Steve along for the jog, as you have every night for the past two weeks, but he reacted the same way he did the first time: with a ‘I only run when its for my life.’ A bit of a drama queen, but it did make you smile, and Steve still wouldn’t let that go.

The hairs on the back of your neck rose suddenly and you slowed to a stop in the middle of the thin path, turning in a slow circle. Nothing looked or sounded out of the ordinary, but something caught your instincts, and your instincts had never turned you wrong before.

You were being watched, and whoever it was knew how to be invisible. Luckily, you knew how to be invisible, too. You scanned the trees and stepped back, tucking yourself into a thicket of bushes, careful not to make too much noise. A hand slipped to your waist, reaching down for the diving knife tucked into the makeshift sheath around your leg, but before your fingers closed around the handle a weight knocked into you and sent you into the dirt.

You scrambled back to your feet, whipping around the find your attacker. To your left, a figure rose, dark braids whipping as your attacker snapped their head up, fixing you with a glare you never thought you’d see again.

The last time you saw Nadia Vasilievich was at the Academy; the last time you saw her, she was dead. She was looking up at you, and telling you it was okay, and then, when you plunged the blade in, she fell, and you ran.

She was dead; she had to be dead.

And yet, here she stood, starting at you down the barrel of a gun. Taller, older than you remembered; dead people didn’t age, but living ones, did. You just hadn’t known Nadia was in that category.

“I killed you,” you said, brows furrowing. Nadia let out a sharp, bitter laugh.

“You failed,” she said. “That is your thing, yeah? Failing?”

You ignored her remark, too shocked to be standing in front of her, unable to do anything but look. It was Nadia whose eyes you’d felt on you, Nadia who had been tracking you for weeks. She was supposed to be a ghost, but somehow, she became something different.

This was not the girl you laughed with in the training room. This was the girl whose throat you slit.

A nasty scar shone along her neck, angry and badly healed, and when she swallowed, she gave the tiniest wince, like the action hurt.

“What are you doing here, Nadia?” You asked. Her brows twitched, and she lunged, snapping forward with the gun.

“You do not get to call me that.” She tried to bring the gun down onto your temple, but you duck, snapping a hand up and smacking the gun out of her fingers. The metal landed softly on the dirt with a thud, and Nadia flicked a glance at it before meeting your gaze again. She dove for it, but you were faster, and had the barrel pressed to her forehead before she was halfway bent. She froze, rage burning in her eyes.

You’d seen that hatred before, remembered it from training sessions and lunches in the cafeteria. Nadia was generous with her emotion, and unafraid to show it.

Now, though, her hatred had a new home. You could see it in the way she watched you, like predator stalking prey, and the way she walked, like a cat after a mouse. Her reason for being here was clear; you didn’t need to waste any time asking.

“Tell me why you’re here,” you said coolly, flicking the safety off for good measure. Nadia didn’t flinch - you were both trained out of reacting to fear - but her eyes narrowed.

“You do not know?” She snapped. Her form was rigid, but her expression was angry, the only trace of her discomfort in the stiff set of her shoulders. “You are a murderer.”

“We’re both murderers,” you said. “Kinda comes with the job.”

“No,” she said. “I do not kill my own kind. Not like you.”

“Like me?”

“Andrei,” she snarled. “Gruzdev. Yakimov. All of them. All dead.”

The pieces clicked together: the Mall, the fire, and your little ghost. Nadia believed it was you; she believed you burned down the mall, you killed your people. Only, they weren’t your people, hadn’t been for a long time. Only, you didn’t burn down the mall. Only, how could you make her believe it was monster before she tried to kill you again?

You shook your head, pulling the gun away and letting your hands fall to your sides. Nadia’s gaze flicked to the gun at your side, then back up to your eyes; you held the power, at least in this second, and she knew it.

“You killed my family,” Nadia said.

“Family?” You scoffed. “You mean the people that turned us into monsters? That put a blade in a ten year old’s hand and asked her to kill her _sister_?”

Nadia’s composure shattered at the last word and she lunged. Her hands caught you by the shoulders and shoved, sending you both careening into the dirt. You landed flat on your back, breath knocked clean out, but you scrambled away, instincts taking over until your brain turned back on.

Nadia leaned down and yanked the blade from your sheath, jamming it into the dirt an inch from your head and growling in frustration when she missed. She tried again, and you jerked, missing the tip of the blade but catching it’s handle in your temple.

The impact knocked you off balance, sending you back into the dirt, but you pushed backward, up and on your feet by the time Nadia reached you again. She swung with her free hand, and you focused on the other, letting her land a strike straight to your nose so you could lunge for the blade.

The bone cracked, and fire licked its way up your nose, like a thousand hornets swarming your nasal passage. Blood rushed down your face, metal coating your tongue, but you blinked past the pain.

Nadia believed you were responsible for Starcourt, but it was Steve and his friends. If she directed her rage at them, they wouldn’t survive.

She could never know the truth.

“I did,” you huffed, straightening. “And they _screamed_ when they died.”

Nadia let out a shriek of frustration - she always did let her emotion get the best of her - and lunged again. This time, though, you were ready for her, and shot a foot out, tripping her. She landed flat on her face in the dirt, and you jumped on top of her, flipping her onto her back and pinning her with your knees and hands.

She thrashed beneath you, spitting Russian profanities, but you held steady, letting the blood from your nose drip onto her face, not moving until she went limp. She stared up at you with a hatred to intense it was almost painful to look at.

“Do it,” she snarled, spitting your blood out of her mouth. “Finish it.”

_“все в порядке, сестра,” she said. ‘It’s alright, sister.’_

You’d killed Nadia Vasilievich once before. You wouldn’t do it again; couldn’t do it again.

You didn’t want to be this anymore. You didn’t want to be a killer, a spy, a monster. You wanted to be the person Steve thought you were, someone good and brave.

Not this; never this.

You let the blade fall away, shaking your head. You pulled a fist back, landing one punch to her face to disorient her, and pushed to your feet. Nadia, still rocking from the hits, stayed flat on the forest floor, panting for breath.

“I killed you once,” you said. “Finish the job yourself, this time.” You kicked the bloody blade out of reach, and gave Nadia one last look before taking off in the direction you came.

* * *

As expected, Steve overacted upon your arrival back at his house, marching you upstairs and setting you down on the closed toilet seat as he rummaged beneath his sink for a first aid kit.

“This is exactly why I don’t run,” he grumbled, dropping down onto the bathtub ledge and unfolding the kit on the floor.

“And here I thought it was because you were lazy,” you said. He huffed in dismissal, tearing a piece of gaze and dumping alcohol on it.

“Shut your mouth so I can clean it,” he said. You did as instructed, but cocked your brows. Steve ignored the expression, dabbing at the blood caked around your nose and mouth. Your nose throbbed painfully, but it wasn’t anything you couldn’t handle, so you clenched your teeth and let him clean it up.

He dropped a bloody piece of gauze into the tiny trash can and grabbed another, his brows furrowed.

“You’re angry,” you mused.

He huffed again, lifting his gaze to yours.

“Course I’m angry,” he said. “You leave for a thirty minute run and come back an hour later dripping blood.”

“Exaggerating,” you said, quirking a brow. Steve rolled his eyes, reaching up to wipe at a cut above your eyebrow you hadn’t noticed; from the handle of the blade, most likely. You’d left it somewhere in the dirt, and missed its presence on your hip.

“You going to tell me what happened?”

“You going to ask?”

His hand fell to rest against his leg, gauze balled up in his fist, and his expression softened, soft brown eyes piercing yours.

“Are you okay?”

“I’m always okay,” you said. He rolled his eyes again.

“What happened out there? Run into a tree?”

“That’s more your thing.”

“I’ve _never_ done that,” he said, one side of his mouth quirking up. “At least, not recently.”

You leaned back against the toilet, porcelain cool against your shoulders above your tank top.

“There are things I haven’t told you,” you said. “Things I’ve done.”

“This is about the spy,” Steve said, lips turning down. “The one who’s been following you.”

You nodded, averting your gaze.

“You said before that we are only monsters if we let ourselves believe it,” you said. “But that was never true for me. It wasn’t about belief. It was about choice. And I made that choice.”

“I don’t understand,” Steve said, hesitant.

Guilt pressed against your lungs, quickly followed by hot anger at yourself for not making sure Nadia was dead, at Nadia for not dying, at Andrei and Malenkov Academy for forcing the choice on you before you realized the cost.

“When I was ten years old, I ended up at Malenkov. I was a scared, frail little girl. I was nearly killed more times than I could count my first week at the Academy,” you said, memories flickering behind your eyelids. Grimy floors and fading brick walls and squeaking bed frames and bloodstains the color of rust. “A girl named Nadia took me in. She was a few years older, and she taught me to fight back. She was my сестра. My sister.” Your memories twisted, turned dark and red. “On the second final exam, every child at the Academy was paired and placed in a room with a single blade. We had been taught to choose loyalty to country over loyalty to love, and now, we were going to prove it.”

In your peripheral vision, Steve stiffened, his understanding and frustration palpable.

“Life or death. We both chose to live, but that meant one of us had to die. Nadia taught me well. Too well.”

Steve was quiet for a long moment before he spoke.

“What does that have to do with…with whoever is chasing you?” He asked.

You took in a breath.

“I believed her to be dead. When I-” You flicked a glance at Steve. “-slit her throat, I watched her bleed out. But I was removed from the room so quickly…” You shrugged. “As it turns out, I was wrong.”

“Nadia is alive,” he said. “And she…did this to you?”

You met his gaze, nodding.

“Why?”

“She thinks I’m responsible for what happened at the mall.”

“That wasn’t you! That was the Mind Flayer, and Eleven, and Joyce and Hopper. We barely made it out of that place alive.”

“I know that. You know that. Nadia doesn’t know that.”

Steve’s eyes widened and he shook his head in disbelief.

“She’ll kill you,” he said. “You can’t take the fall for this. You had nothing to do with it.”

You shifted toward him, reaching up to touch his cheek gently. The gesture surprised you both, and Steve’s lips parted, brows furrowing.

“I can handle Nadia,” you said. “I won’t let her come after you. You and your friends have been through enough.”

“If something happens to you-”

Your hand settled against his cheek, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye lightly. The tiniest of smiles pulled on your lips, lopsided and a little sad.

“This is my fight,” you said.

He shook his head, features twisting.

“I don’t-” He paused. “I can’t lose you.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said. You tried again with the smile, and this time, it seemed to work. Steve’s lips quirked upwards slightly, and he let out a breath.

“Don’t disappear on me,” he said. “I’ll go out of my freaking mind.”

“You’re stuck with me for now, Steve Harrington.”

He arched a brow.

“That a promise?”

You rolled your eyes, bringing your other hand up to his face. The cocky confidence faltered, and he went quiet, scanning your expression for some kind of clue.

“I’ve never kissed anyone outside of a mission,” you said softly, stomach churning. “I’d like to try it, for real.”

Steve’s eyes glittered, lips parting, but he didn’t move, like he was trying not to scare you off. He simply nodded, gaze flicking between your eyes and your lips. He was suddenly nervous, and he looked how you felt.

Nerves skittered along your skin and the training ground into you screamed for you to run, but you didn’t listen, didn’t flee. You wanted to be here, even if it was scary. Even if it was terrifying as all hell.

He dipped toward you, closing the space until only a breath remained between you. He lifted his chin, brushing the most careful of kisses across your mouth, his lips hot and soft, his movements tentative. The need for more unfurled in your gut, and when he pulled back, you nearly grumbled in frustration like a child.

For a long moment, he just looked at you; looked at you like you were an incredible, precious, miraculous thing; looked at you like you weren’t a monster or a killer, but just you.

You leaned in again, pressing your lips to his, not as careful, not as gentle, and his lips parted beneath yours, his breath hot and his fingers cool against your skin as his hands found his way to your waist. He drew you toward him, a little awkward with the tub and toilet and your injuries in the way, pulling you against him like he’d been waiting to do so since the moment he met you.

You wondered, absently, if you might have ended up here in a different world, in a world where you grew up like a normal kid in Hawkins. A million possibilities, a million paths. Maybe one or two landed you in Steve Harrington’s line of sight.

You were infinitely grateful to have found him in this one.

When he finally pulled away, his eyes blown and his lips pink and plump, he smiled.

“For a first try,” he said, “I think you nailed it.”

You smiled, a real, full smile, and then Steve was smiling, too, and pulling you back toward him. And for the first time in your life, you wanted to _stay_.


End file.
